


Stanford McGucket

by Nour386



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Au of another fic, Gen, I'll post an original fic at some point, I'm using theLastSpeeacher's OCs again, Ships might be a thign but that'd be later down th eline, because why write somethign new when you can remake soemthing someoen else already made, wait that's the whole point of fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 11:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nour386/pseuds/Nour386
Summary: An AU of the Stanley McGucket fic.Stanford messed up his brother's chances of getting a scholarship and is now living out of the local library. Surviving with little to no plan Until a kind Southern couple offer him a chance to start over.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelastspeecher (HeidiMelone)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thelastspeecher+%28HeidiMelone%29).
  * Inspired by [Stanley McGucket](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278667) by [The Last Speecher (HeidiMelone)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiMelone/pseuds/The%20Last%20Speecher). 



> I was on a binge of "What if Ford was kicked out instead" with fic requests on Tumblr. And then TheLastSpeecher on Tumblr wrote a role swap fic and this was kind of born from that.

It had been a month, and yet still Stanford remembered the night as though it had just happened. The duffle bag flung at his chest, the forceful slam of the front door to his childhood home, his brother’s protests being silenced by their father’s angry screams. Through heavy tears, he could see their silhouettes in some sort of violent puppet show in the bedroom window. He spent that night in the boat that he and Stanley had spent many a summer’s day working on.

 

He could only thank God that his father had stuffed some of his books into the duffle bag before throwing it at him. They might have made it land harder, but it gave him something to do; they gave him some form of comfort. And for whatever reason, his father had thrown in the books that Stanford currently had on loan from the library. _Probably didn’t want to pay the overdue fees if they were left behind_ Ford thought sadly.

 

However, it was thanks to those books that he now stands where he is today: leaning over the reception desk of the Glass Shard Beach library; answering to a cheerful pair of Southern parents who had limitless number of questions with regards to the College brochures that were proudly displayed near Stanford’s desk. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but Stanford saw little use in grumbling over his losses; or perhaps he was just too tired and hungry to bother paying much mind to it. Instead he chose to focus on the couple before him.

 

“So Cali University has stronger biology curriculums?” The sandy blonde woman asked, excitement dancing in her blue eyes.

 

“From what I’ve read and heard, it seemed that their biology department is by far the largest in the district,” Stanford nodded, eyes half lidded. “However I’ve heard that their dormitories can be somewhat sub-par in terms of quality.”  


“I’ve heard that m’self” the woman’s husband agreed, crossing his arms, “but they ain’t that bad are they?”

 

“I-” Ford yawned “wouldn’t honestly be able to tell you, I haven’t attended myself. I can only tell you what I’ve heard.”

“That makes sense,” the woman said, her smile falling slightly, “but I’m sure our little Angie would be able to deal with a bit o’ discomfort if it meant she could study what she wants”

 

“Is that so?” Stanford asked, standing up straighter. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is her prefered area of study? You mentioned biology, but is there any particular category she enjoys more than others?”

 

“Yes indeed,” the man said with a proud grin, “she particularly loves her reptiles, herpology-if I recall”  


“Herpetology darlin’” his wife corrected.

 

“Ah yes, thank ya Sally” He beamed,

 

“Is there anything i can hel-” Ford began, before his stomach’s grumbles interrupted him.

 

“Y’all right there?” Sally’s husband asked, concern suddenly engulfing his face.

 

“Wha-oh-yes I’m...I’m fine” Ford lied, hoping a smile would convince the couple before him.

 

The Husband seemed to thinking something over, his hand cupping chin. Ford let the him be, his eyes wandering over to the clock on the wall behind the man. His mind wandering over his ever so distant lunch hour; his hand wandered to his pocket. Six fingers fidgeted about with the coins and notes, considering what he could get for lunch, or if he could get lunch at all [it] in favour of having some dinner later in the evening. Perhaps he could try getting a ‘six finger’ discount, but after the last time Stanford was less than confident in his abilities. His eyes felt heavier the more he thought. Perhaps after he helped this couple he’d be able to sneak a nap. The seats in the VHS section were secluded and rather comfy.

 

"are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look too well." Sally asked, she'd seen the Librarian's state before. Her son got notoriously delirious when working on assignments.

"I’m-’m- fine" he said stifling a yawn, his glasses sat unevenly on his nose, but he made no effort to correct them.

 

"ya don't seem fine" Sally’s husband said, eyeing Stanford’s thinning face, "when was the last time ya ate?"

 

"oh I-er" he yawned again, rubbing his eye with his thumb while he did so, "My shift started early today, so I missed breakfast, but I had dinner last night" he added hastily.

 

"oh really? what did you have for dinner?" the boy blanched, people rarely ever asked about him, let alone anything that personal.

 

"a couple of sandwiches" he said sheepishly, averting his eyes as he spoke, it wasn't a complete lie, he did indeed have some sandwiches for dinner, it was just that they lacked any filling.

“Well, Mearl and I were thinkin’ of  gettin’ lunch while we’re here.” Sally said, “perhaps ya could join us.”

 

“It’d be the least we could do fer ya” Mearl said, seeing the protest on Ford’s lip, “one good turn an’ all”

 

“But-” Stanford started, he barely knew these two, could he in good will accept their offer? “I wouldn't want to intrude, I mean, it’s-it’s not like i did much”

 

“Don’t cut yerself short,” Mearl said bluntly, “Ya helped us out majorly with gettin’ information on these big schools, it’s the least we can do.”

“When does yer shift end? We could meet up with ya then.” Sally proposed.

 

“My lunch hour is at four...”  Stanford said thoughtlessly.

 

“Wonderful! We’ll see you then” Sally grinned, her smile reminding Stanford the way his Ma would smile whenever she made a successful sale.

 

The rest of Stanford's library shift was uneventful. Reshelving some returns, calling up some overdue loans, listening to the head librarian not-so-subtly warn him not to try stealing books like he did when he was 7. A usual day if he was perfectly honest. Students came in and out, asking for books that covered whatever their English assignment they had due.

 

Stanford tried his hardest to not snap at the kids who earnestly asked about novels he remembers spending warm afternoons reading at home. It wasn’t there fault, it couldn’t be, it wasn’t anyone else's fault except his own. If he hadn’t gotten in that scuffle with Crampelter he wouldn’t be here right now. But Stanford didn't have to ruminate; he had books to catalogue. A job his superior made him aggressively aware was his responsibility.

* * *

 

The McGuckets chattered excitedly, taking in the sights around them, excitedly pointing out things in the distance; often turning to Stanford to ask his opinion and recommendations concerning things they saw in store windows. If he was perfectly honest, Stanford felt as though he was trying to guide excitable children through the aisles of the library rather than helping a pair of fully grown adults find a place to eat.

 

“Ya sure have a lot o’ souvenir places ‘ere Stanford” Mearl said, looking into a display window he swore he’d seen earler on the boardwalk.

 

“I guess we do,” Stanford said, his fingers fiddling with loose string in his pocket, “I never really noticed.”

 

“Guess that makes sense” Mearl replied, “I never really no’iced how many stalls sold yams at the markets when I was younger. Always wondered why my parent’s never grew ‘em.”  
  
“That was because they had too many competitors.” Sally replied nudging her husband with her elbow, “if they sold ‘em like e’eryone else they would have ended up sellin’ none ‘cause all the other stalls woulda had ‘em at a better price.”   


“You sayin’ my fam’ly would over charge on our goods?” Mearl asked in mock offence.   


“Not on my life,” Sally replied, fauxing fear, “I would never say anythin’ bad ‘bout the McGuckets,”  
  
“Hey look over there,” Stanford pointed, not realising that they were joking, “There’s a restaurant my family used to eat at when I was younger.”

 

“Oh?” The pair said, following Ford’s finger to see a 50’s styled restaurant.

 

“Or you know, there are more restaurants along the boardwalk, if you want some variety” he added quickly, hoping they wouldn’t return to arguing.

 

“That sounds wonderful” Sally smiled, “Ya could give Mearl an’ m a small tour,”

 

“Sounds like fun,” Mearl agreed, grinning broadly at his wife, “you up for it Stanford?”

 

“No-I mean-ye-Sure thing” Stanford said hesitantly. Ignoring the loneliness in his chest, Ford lead the pair along the boardwalk.

 

* * *

 

Sally and Mearl, through Stanford’s recommendation, agreed to eat a seafood cafe that had several outdoor tables. Stanford found himself parked on these outdoor tables, feeling out of place amongst the smartly dressed adults who occupied the other tables of the restaurant. He could feel the gaze of every other patron judging him for coming in dressed in a wrinkled shirt and pants that he hadn’t changed in a week. His sweater vest had several loose ends and his hair looked messy enough to be considered a wild animal. Not to mention the loud rumbling from his stomach that seemed determined to shatter the boardwalk. The McGuckets, however, did not share this discomfort. Eagerly reading through their menu, quietly laughing at the names of some of the dishes.

 

“Gull in a yer gullet? Really? Couldn’ they call it a fish steak?” Mearl asked in disbelief.

 

“Steak ain’t cooked the same way Mearl,” Sally said, rolling her eyes, “But I’ll agree that half these names coulda been written by Angie when she was 2.”

 

“I think they say named it like that to make their restaurant seem fancier than it actually is.” Stanford said, eyeing his own menu.

 

“Or maybe they wan’ to be known for the least readable menu,” Mearl replied, hailing a waiter.

 

“Perhaps they’re plannin’ a deal with the carnival by the beach,” Sally smirked, “prolly have their waiters walk aroun’ wearin’ clown costumes.”

 

“That’d probably add to the hilarity of some these food names,” Stanford chuckled, “Fish ala ketchup? What even is this?”

 

When the waiter arrived Mearl and Sally placed their orders straight away, Stanford however took a bit more time. Partially because the waiter seemed to have his nose so high up in the air that he ignored the dirty looking boy, and partially because he hadn’t actually chosen anything yet. He could feel the waiter’s eyes boring into the top of his head as he skimmed through the menu, checking price first and item later.

 

_I can’t afford any of these! Stanford_ thought embarrassment, ignoring the cries of his stomach.   _why did I agree to coming here? I guess I could order a drink to not seem impolite-but then they might think that I don’t see them as worth my time-_

 

The waiter coughed, breaking Stanford out of his train of thought, making him partially drop his menu in the process. Which revealed his distressed face to the McGuckets, for a moment before Stanford covered his sweating face again.   
  
“I thi-I-I’ll just have a coke please” Stanford said quietly, not meeting the waiter’s eye.

 

“Will that be all?” the waiter asked, sounding as though Stanford had danced merrily upon the waiter’s mother’s grave rather than making a cheap order.

 

“Ye-”  
  
“Get him a plate like ours,” Mearl interrupted.   
  
“RIght away!” the waiter said, sounding much more cheerful as he jotted down the request and sped off to the kitchen.

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Stanford said, in awe of Mearl’s generosity.

 

“Don’t be silly,” Sally said, surprising Stanford, who was expecting her to be upset at Mearl’s snap decision, “we said that we’d be takin’ ya to lunch didn’t we?”

 

“You did but I didn’t expect-” Stanford said, trying to hold back tears,

 

“You didn’t think we’d leave ya to pay for this over-priced grub on yer own didja?” Mearl asked, with a grin.

 

“No-I mean yes?- I don’t know” Stanford replied, wiping his eye.

 

“Hey now, ‘t’s alright” Sally said calmly, reaching out for Stanford’s shoulder.

 

“Think notihn’ of it,” Mearl assured, with a grin.

 

“I haven’t had a full meal in so long,” Stanford blurted out mid-sob.

 

“Ya haven’t?” Mearl asked, his face twisting in shock.

 

“No wonder you’re so thin” Sally muttered, holding on to Stanford’s sleeve more tightly.

 

Stanford excused himself and headed to the bathroom. Once inside he took a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, noticing how red his eyes were starting to look. He splashed his face with some water, letting the coolness wash over him. “It’s just some food Stanford, you don’t need to break down over something so mundane,” he berated under his breath. Looking up, Stanford realised just how messy his hair and clothes were.  Stanford took a moment to try and straighten his hair and clothes out as best as he could. “Maybe now I won’t look as much as a charity case,” he hoped, nodding at himself in the mirror before leaving.

 

When Stanford got back to the outdoor table, the food had just arrived. The waiter give a light smile to the McGuckets as he left the table. Stanford ignored the full body scowl he received and took his seat opposite the McGuckets, who had their hands clasped, muttering a short prayer. In lieu of making his situation more awkward, Stanford chose to wait for the couple to finish before digging in.

 

“You don’t say grace?” Sally asked, cutting her fillet.

 

“I-I’m Jewish,” Stanford admitted sheepishly.

“Oh-wait, is seafood Kosh’r?” Mearl asked with concern.

 

“Er-yes the type of fish used here is Kosher for the most part,” Stanford replied, recalling the time his family visited the cafe when he was younger.

 

“That’s a relief, wouldn’a want ya goin’ against yer beliefs.” Mearl sighed, taking a bite of his fillet.

 

“Thank you” Stanford replied before eating his own fillet; trying his hardest to not finish his plate instantly.

 

The meal proceeded mostly in silence. Save for the few moments where the McGuckets occasionally brought up their children back home. “Angie woulda loved comin’ here.”

 

“I betcha comin’ to eat here woulda cheered Fiddleford right up.”

 

It made Stanford think back to his own home. “Do they think about me?” he wondered, taking a sip of his drink, _Does Ma still make food for me by mistake? Does Stan forgive me for that night? Does Pop even let them talk about me when he’s around? Does Ma ever talk about me to her clients? If she did she’d probably end up crying into the phone. Heh, at least she’d get more of their time._

 

Stanford’s thoughts were interrupted by the waiter, accidentally bumping the table, bringing in the bill.

 

“Say Stanford,” Sally started, leaving her husband to pay for the bill and tip, “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to ask you,”

 

“What is it?” Stanford replied, putting down his glass.

 

“I noticed that yer the only person we’ve seen today that ain’t in school, is there any reason fer that?” She continued, her face gentle but questioning.

 

“I-” Stanford choked, he could feel the tears inching out of the corner of his eye at the mention of that night, _but if those self-help books taught me anything..._ he thought.

 

“If ya don’t want ta share it’s fine” Sally assured, “I’m just concerned is all, do yer parents know yer not in school?”

 

At the mention of his parents Stanford felt his world collapse around him, the tears that had been threatening to spill since he’d taken his seat finally began to fall. If he were standing he’d have fallen to the ground; luckily for Stanford he wasn’t standing. Mearl leaned back in surprise, his chair squeaking along the wood of the boardwalk as he did so. Meanwhile Sally simply stood up to sit next to Stanford, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug.

 

“It’s alright darlin’,” she whispered; as the boy pressed his face into her shoulder, “I’m here fer ya”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Sally could see the eyes of the patrons turning to their table. When her eyes met her husband, the pair shared a nod and quickly took action. Mearl raised his hand to hail the waiter while Sally whispered into Stanford’s ear. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, ya know any place that’d fit the bill?”

 

Stanford nodded into her shirt, sniffling quietly as they both got up and left; soon followed by Mearl who held a pair of to-go boxes. Letting the boy lean against her as he wiped his eyes, Sally had Stanford guide them to a place for them to sit, “ya don’t gotta talk to us about what’s botherin’ you, but some fresh air would do you good.” she said, rubbing his shoulder.

 

The McGuckets soon found themselves sitting on a pair of rocks on Glass Shard beach; in front of them stood a set of playground equipment. Stanford held onto Sally’s arm, still in her hug from earlier, his earlier sobbing quieted down to the occasional sniffle as he watched the swings before him sway in the breeze. His lunch hour ended long ago, but Stanford had no intention of going back to the library right now.

 

Sally rubbed circles in the boy's back as he shuddered. “If ya wanna talk about what's botherin’ ya you’ve got two pairs of ears here for you,” she said calmly.

 

“I don’t want to bother you,” Stanford slurred, tearing his gaze from the swings to look at the sea.

 

“We gave ya a free shoulder to cry on,” Mearl said, “I don’t think anything you say now is really goin’ ta bother us,”

 

Stanford turned to look at Mearl and Sally, their faces gentle and welcoming. _I owe them that much_ he reasoned, getting up from his seat on the rock.

 

“It all started about a month ago. My twin brother,” Stanford said, his voice cracking, “had gotten an offer for a sports scholarship, and a scout was going to watch one of his matches. Stanley and I were on our way to the match when-” Stanford paused, suddenly feeling foolish.

 

“What happened son?” Maerl asked, concern filling his voice.

 

Stanford took a moment to collect his thoughts. “We-well-I were attacked. Some bullies from school cornered us just as we arrived. They started going off about my hands. And Stanley being Stanley, dove at them fists at the ready. Unfortunately the college representative exited the building at that exact moment; and well, it isn’t the best image when the person you’ve been called out to check up on is covered in blood.”

 

“My word,” Sally muttered, Stanford started to tear up again.

 

“Stanley didn’t mind it, ‘I never woulda done well in some big dumb school anyway’ as he put it,” Stanford continued, doing an impressive impersonation of his brother’s voice, “My father on the other hand,” Stanford chuckled between his tears; as though his life was some twisted joke and he was only now understanding the punchline. “He didn’t take to kindly to the news. He threw me out the same night, saying I was a wimp who hid in my brother’s shadow for too long. And that I wasn’t to return until I had made up for the millions that my brother could have earnt us.”

 

Sally covered her mouth in horror at that statement, a burning sensation filling her chest as she watched Stanford struggle to collect himself again. “So you’ve been out on your own since then? How did you make it by one your own?”

 

Stanford paused, seeing the sincerity in her eyes, the kindness in her voice; it felt almost impossible to not break down again. But he somehow kept composed, if only for a little longer. “When my father kicked me out, he threw a duffle bag at me, it had some clothes and the books I had borrowed from the library.” Stanford said, licking his lips, “I guess he didn’t want to pay the overdue fee or something, but when I saw the books in the bag, I remembered the library, And-I-when I saw them I knew I had a chance to stay self-sufficient; since, the library opened ‘til late, and if I took the late shift, I could lock myself in and stay the night. Plus most of the librarians knew me from my long hours of studying, so I had a chance of getting a job there.”

 

“But that older dame didn’t seem too fond of ya,” Mearl stated, remembering the hawk-like watch the head librarian had on Stanford.

 

“Right, her-um-she’s the head Librarian, she’s been working there since I was in elementary, and she kind of never forgave me for that time where my brother and I stole some books from the junior fiction section.” Stanford replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We gave them back, she’s just hard on me is all.” he added quickly.

 

“But what were you planning on doing? You can't sleep in the library after hours forever.” Sally observed.

 

“I was planning on earning enough to start staying at the nearby motel,” Stanford admitted, “the rest I was going to play by ear.”

 

There was a beat. Stanford stood there, watching the McGuckets as they looked at one another.

 

By the end of his tale, Stanford had tears falling down his cheeks again. But this time he wasn’t ashamed, or upset, he just felt...hurt. Revisiting those old wounds was never a comfortable act; especially late at night in the VHS section of the library. However, now that he’d said it out-loud, he felt...lighter, like a weight was lifted from his chest. _I wonder if this is what my teachers meant when they’d say that talking about your problems with people was better than keeping it locked up_ he thought, stepping back to sit on the swing set.

 

With one last look, Stanford saw that the McGuckets seemed to be holding a meaningful conversation. He decided to leave them be, turning to face the sea and the soon to be setting sun. The head librarian would have his head for disappearing for so long, _I wonder if she'd have the heart to throw me out over this_ he mused, letting the sound of the waves wash over him. Taking him to a time when things were simpler, where school was the last thing on his mind and his biggest concerns was making a wrecked ship seaworthy. Laughing alongside a free spirit and running along the beach, uncaring for the sand that got in their shoes and on their clothes.

 

Stanford was brought out of his thoughts by a hand pressing onto his shoulder. The same hand that held him close that afternoon, the same hand that let become a blubbering fool without reprimand. Turning to face the Sally McGucket, rather than meeting with a judging glare, Stanford saw a welcoming smile.

 

“Stanford,” she said, taking the seat of the swing next to him, “Mearl and I got to thinking, and we were wonderin’ if you’d want to come and work for us.”

 

“Wha-”

 

“We’ve been looking for a new farm hand, we’re not as young as we once were, an’ our kids are out mos’ of the time,” Mearl said, standing to Ford’s left.

 

Stanford looked up at the man, processing what he was being told. “What do you mean?” he asked.

 

“If ya wanta job, bed and three square meals a day, we can give it to ya” Mearl said, placing a firm hand on Stanford’s other shoulder.

 

A glimmer of hope lit up in Ford’s mind, a smile spreading across his face. _I never thought I’d find kindness like this from strangers-_ he thought, interrupted by the memory of a rough new jersey accented voice ‘ain’t nothin’ in life free, yer best to remember that Stan’.

 

Stanford’s smile fell, sudden concern filling him. “Why would you want me to work for you?” he asked, voice cracking again as he ran a six fingered hand through his hair, “I’m just some, drop-out f-freak. What could I possibly offer you?”, he sniffled quietly. his eyes were burning and he was all out of tears to cry. Sitting in silence, he waited for them to realise their mistake.

 

“Son, yer polydactyl ain’t got nothin’ to do with this,” Mearl said, kneeling in front of the boy, “what me an’ Sally get outta this is a hard working young man who made a mistake but is workin’ on fixin’ it.”

 

“You might be feelin’ alone in the world Stanford, but it don’t have to be that way.” Sally said, gripping Ford’s shoulder tightly, “It’s alright to ask fer help.”

 

“Can I have some time to think about it?” Stanford asked, looking up.

 

“Sure thing son, but we can’t stay fer too long, we live up in Arkansas ya see?” Mearl said, getting up. “We’ll meet you at the library by seven. Is that good for ya?”

 

Stanford wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded.

 

* * *

 

Stanford stood awkwardly in front of the library, fidgeting with his dufflebag trap as he waited. He was early, but that was something he couldn't really help. After arriving over two hours late the head librarian almost shouted the library down; saying that if he were to not take his job seriously then he might as well leave. Taking the hint stanford took his duffle bag from it’s hiding place, beneath the ‘for sale’ book box and left.

 

That had been about an hour ago, and judging by his watch, Stanford still had another hour of waiting to do. With a sigh, the high school dropout walked over to the stairs by the entrance of the library and took a seat. _Might as well make good use of my time_ he thought, taking out a work book and pen from his bag.

* * *

 

It was 7:05 when the McGuckets arrived, laughing amongst themselves as they held some souvenirs that Stanford recognised from the carnival.

 

“Stanferd!” Mearl beamed, handing his keychains to his wife as he approached, “have ya thought ‘bout our offer?”

 

“Yes.” Stanford said, playing with a folded piece of paper in his hand,“and I’ve decided to take you up on your offer.”

 

“That’s great!” Sally said, stuffing the key chains into her purse, “we’re ready to leave, have you gotten everything?”

 

“Yes, about that,” Stanford said slowly,

 

“Is somethin’ wrong son?” Mearl asked,

 

“O-n-no nothing’s wrong.“ Stanford clarified. He cleared his throat, “I was just wondering if we could make a quick stop before we left?”

 

“Ya want to take a look at some memories fer the last time?” Mearl smiled, leading the way to his car.

 

“In a way,” stanford replied, taking the back seat. Placing his bag on the seat next to him.

 

“So where are we headed?” Mearl asked turning the key after Sally got in.

 

“Pines Pawns, it’s near the far end of the boardwalk, near the waffle house.” Stanford said, almost stuttering as the words left his mouth.

 

“Pines? That your old place?”  Sally asked, looking at Ford in the rear-view mirror.

 

“Yes,” Stanford said, staring out the window, “I have some unfinished business there,”  
  
“Stanferd,” Mearl said slowly, his gaze meeting Stanford’s through the rear view mirror.

 

“I’m not going to start up a fuss,” Stanford said quickly, “I just want to leave a message for my brother,”

 

“Oh?” Sally asked, “you want him to be able to find ya?”

 

“Yes” Stanford said, “knowing my father, my brother may not be able to stay for much longer,”

 

“Then why not invite him to come with us?” Mearl asked, “we got plenty a room back at the farm.”

 

“I’d rather not force a decision on him,” Stanford said, “he might decide to walk his own path, but I want to give him the opportunity to contact me if he wishes.”

 

The car stopped near the store, but not outside it. The shop’s lights were off so Stanford knew he was safe from being spotted by his father. Walking quickly, Stanford made his way to the red cadillac that was parked in front of the store. Carefully, Stanford lifted one of the windscreen wipers and placed a folded up letter under it.

 

“You ready to go?” Mearl asked as Stanfrod took his seat in car again.

 

“Yes I am,” Stanford replied.


	2. A Home away from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford's first day with the McGuckets. What's the worst that could happen?

THUD!

Stanford jolted awake, finding himself in an unfamiliar car in front of an unfamiliar house. “Where am I? What happened?” he slurred, searching his surroundings. 

 

“Mearl ya startled him!” Sally chastised, “you okay Stanford?”

 

“‘M fine” he slurred again, calming down at the sound of Sally’s voice.

 

“That’s good, ‘cause we’re here.” She said getting out of the car. Her door closing more quietly than her husband’s. 

 

_We’re here? Already? Was I asleep for that long?_ Stanford thought, his eyes darting from the low hanging sun to the area outside. 

 

“Are ya gettin’ out or what son?” Mearl asked, “It’s a great car but I can assure ya that our beds are way cozier.”

 

“Coming!” Stanford yelped, blushing as he stepped out of the car. 

 

Before him stood a quaint looking two-story house; a short fence stood around it. To the side of the house Stanford could see a very sizeable vegetable garden. A little ways back behind the house, Stanford could make out a sprawling orchard. The nearest structure to Ford’s eye was a barn out to the side of the house. _This at least looks like a farm_ Stanford thought as he made his way to the front door. He clutched his duffle bag to his chest. _At least they were truthful on that front._

 

A loud barking came from his left. Jumping back, Stanford caught sight of a young brown hair boy struggling with the leash of a large dog. 

 

“JOEL HEEL!” the boy cried. 

 

Stanford fell back in terror. _Oh God they’re going to kill me!_ he thought. Stanford raised his arms to defend himself from a bite that never came. 

 

“Son it’s okay,” Mearl said, placing a firm hand on Stanford’s shoulder. “Joel’s just a bit excitable ‘round strangers is all. No need to worry Lute’s got ‘im under control.”

 

Stanford opened his eyes to see a boy that mirrored Mearl at Ford’s age trying to calm the animal. Taking a deep breath Stanford picked himself up and followed the McGucket parents to their home. The front of the house had a small verandah with a couple of chairs along it as well a low table.   _Like the ones in cartoons._ Stanford thought. Waiting for him with eager eyes were two children who were also not too far from his own age. The boy had sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes that hid behind  a pair of reading glasses. Beside him stood a girl who was half a head shorter then the boy. Her long definitely belonging to her father, however if it weren’t for that Stanford would have guaranteed himself that she was some past-self of Sally brought to the present.

 

“These here are our littlest Guckings,” Mearl said, waving his hand at his children. Stanford held his hands behind his back.   
  
“Pa we ain’t little no more!” the younger girl whined, brushing a strand of sandy brown hair our of her eye.

 

“I know junebug I know,” Mearl replied, rubbing the top of her head. “This here’s my youngest Banjolina.”

  
“Please call me Angie, it’s what e’eryone else does.” she said in an almost pleading manner.

 

Stanford nodded as Mearl gestured to the older boy, “and Fiddleford o’er here is eldest one here.”

 

“Still technically counts as eldest,” Fiddleford said, offering his hand to Stanford. “Howdy, I also answer to Fidds an’ Ford.”

  
  
  


“That second one might be a bit of a problem,”Stanford said slowly, reaching out a slightly clenched hand to meet Fiddleford’s open one, “I’m Stanford Pines, but I-er also go by Ford.”

 

“Well I guess you can jus’ call me Fidds then” FIddleford said with a wink.

 

“And the one givin’ Joel a talk is Lute.” Mearl concluded, as the boy in question waved while holding Joel’s leesh. 

 

“Were you three able to clean up a room for Stanford?” Sally asked.

 

“Harper said we could use his room, but we only got it half done,” Angie said, “but we got the spare room fixed up so he could use that fer now.” 

 

“Good job Junebug.” Mearl said, ruffling Angie’s hair. “And I’m assuming ya’all got yer chores done?”

 

“‘Course Pa” Fiddleford said, puffing out his chest with pride. 

 

“Is that so?” Sally said with a raised brow, “‘cause a little birdie told me you were sulkin’ on yer banjo for most of the day.”

 

“That don’t mean I didn’t get my chores done Ma.” Fiddleford said, casting a glare at his younger sister.

 

“Don’t know whatch yer talkin’ about” Angie replied, looking away.

 

“Alright alright, Stanford’s probably still tired from the long drive drive over. I know I am,” Sally said ushering her family, and Stanford through the front door, “I’m gonna get dinner ready, so take Stanford to his room so he can get comfortable.”

 

“Yes’m” Fiddleford and Angie said, heading through the front door.

 

Stanford followed suit, walking down the corridor, his eyes scanning the walls,  stopping at the picture frame half way down the hall. He noted a family portrait that had the McGucket parents proudly standing on either side of a gaggle of children. They all wore matching sweaters. _Are they a family or a small nation? Although considering their similar facial structure cloning can’t be left out of the question..._ Stanford thought.

 

“Hey Stanford,” Fiddleford said, holding up his hand to stop the Jersey boy from entering any further. “You gotta take yer shoes off ‘fore enterin’ the house” he said, nodding to the small cupboard by the front door. Several pairs of shoes already lined up inside.

 

“Oh-er, do you mind my asking of why?” Stanford replied, walking back to cupboard. As he bent over to put his sneakers into the cupboard, he caught sight of how both the McGucket kids were barefoot.

 

“Well if ya were outside and stepped on a cow pat, ya wouldn’t want to spread that all over the carpet.” Fiddleford replied. 

 

“Good point” Stanford nodded.

 

“The smell almost didn’t come out last time” Fiddleford shuddered.

 

The house was spacious, at least, Stanford assumed it was as one point. There were potted plants in every corner and books stashed into every nook and cranny between the old but obviously loved furniture. He followed Fiddleford and Angie as they pointed out the rooms of the house, half heartedly listening as he observed his surroundings. _This doesn’t look so bad, rather homey,_  he thought stopping to look at a picture that hung proudly from the wall. 

 

He was met with nine smiling face that were different, yet all seemed to feel very McGucket. _Either there’s nasal structure can be a dominant gene or they have a secret cloning lab in the barn_ Stanford thought. His eyes wandered over matching sweaters the family wore, his mind searched through archives of holidays and special occasions trying to find a point where his family did the same. The closest event he could remember was the hanukah his family spent at his grandmother, who had knitted sweaters for him and Stanley.

 

“This photo’s from when Angie graduated Middle school,” Fiddleford said, 

 

“You sure have a large family” Stanford said.

 

“Yep!” Fiddleford said looking over the frame fondly. 

 

“So-er I know you, Angie and Luke-” Stanford began.

 

“Lute” Fiddleford corrected, “like the instrument.”   
  
“Right-who are the others?” Stanford continued.

 

“First is Violynn, she’s the oldest. Then comes Harper, he’s second oldest,” Fiddleford said pointing to a young man who wore his caramel-coloured hair in a ponytail that barely reached his shoulder. “After him comes Sebasstion, alias Bastion.” his finger glided over to the tallest person in the picture, his chin wore the fuzzy beginnings of a beard. He also lacked his father’s large nose. “Then come Me, followed by Lute and Angie.”

 

“Violynn, Harper, Bastion, Fiddleford, Lute and Bajolina-” Stanford said, tapping his chin “-I guess I’ll fit in, since I’m feeling rather high strung myself.”

 

The noise that Fiddleford made in response could only be described as a wheezing laugh. The room echoed with the sound of his laughter as the skinny farm boy clutched his stomach while hunching over. 

 

“Boo!” Angie cried, despite her grin. SHe headed back down the hall, leaving the pair of boys on their own.

 

“A-are you okay?” Stanford asked. grinning at his own joke. 

 

Stanford watched gleefully as the boy before him tried and failed to speak multiple times. Each attempt at speaking only furthered the southerner into his laughing fit. Stanford joined in just as Fiddleford fell to his knees, fist slamming into the carpeted floor. 

 

After what felt like half an hour, the laughter subsided with Fiddleford on his back gasping for air. Fiddleford refused Stanford’s offered hand as he picked himself up, finally collecting his breath. 

 

“Oh Lord I needed that.” FIddleford grinned toothily. 

 

“I definitely needed a laugh like that as well.” Stanford replied, sporting his own broad smile.

 

The pair continued to the spare room, walking past a few doors labeled with the names of the McGucket children. Through the open door,Stanford caught sight of a rather cluttered room. 

 

“That’s Harper’s room.” Fiddleford said, standing next to Stanford at the doorway. “This time tomorrow you’ll be sleepin’ in here.” he said with a grin.

 

“That sure is some intersting equipment he’s got lying around.” stanford said, looking at the instruments that littered the floor of the room. 

 

“Yeah, Harper got into special effects for films.” Fiddleford said, “but he took most of the better stuff with him when he moved out. Lute an’ I’ll be movin’ the rest of this to the attic tomorrow.”

 

“Er-thank you” Stanford said, following Fiddleford towards the spare room.

 

“Don’t mention it” Fiddleford smiled.

 

Fiddleford walked across the hall into the only other room with an open door. “So this is it. The magical spare room! Rumours say that anyone who sleeps in this room never return!” Fiddleford said, putting on a showman’s voice as he wiggled his fingers.

 

“Because they either leave after their stay or move to a different room?” Stanford asked, walking into the room. The walls were painted in a dull white, several framed landscapes hung from the walls as well. A queen sized bed was parked in the middle of the room, a cupboard stood in the wall opposite it. A sizable window stood in the far wall, the evening’s sunset shone through, a short bookshelf stood beneath the window. Stanford recognised several of the titles from his time at the library.

 

“Well aren’t you a buzz killer?” Fiddleford teased.

 

“If you were implying that your guests went missing or died in this room I’d have to point out that it’s too clean for that.” Stanford said looking at the empty picture frame that stood by an alarm clock on the night-stand.

 

“How do ya know we don’t clean the room up after the guests disappear?” Fiddleford shot back.

 

“because for that to be true this room would have to smell like disinfectant or cleaning products, which would still make the room suspicious.” Stanford replied with a smirk.

 

“Did ya spend yer nights readin’ Dick Tracey or somethin’?” Fiddleford said defeatedly.

 

“Maybe,” Stanford said triumphantly, “Can’t say, a magician never reveals his secrets.”

 

“You’ve got some cheek to ya,” Fiddleford observed, tapping his foot on the ground. “It’ll be fun havin’ ya around. I’m tellin’ ya now Stanford.”

 

The last statement took Stanford by surprise. “I hope I don’t let your parents down then,” he said, “Farm hands are normally hired for hard work and not for sharp tongues right?”

 

“Ya are rather scrawny,” Fiddeford said, ignoring his own thin stature, “but I’d give ya a month ‘fore ya find the farm work a breeze.”

 

“You really think so?” Stanford asked, leaning against the window sill. 

 

“We’re a fam’ly of 8. I know so Stanford” Fiddleford grinned.

 

Stanford smiled back, his hand aimlessly playing with the zipper to his duffle bag. The sounds of laughter from outside his window caught his and Fiddleford’s attention. Turning to see what was going on, Stanford was surprised to see Lute and Angie running barefoot after Joel. _So much for keeping the carpet clean._ Stanford thought.

* * *

 

Stanford lay face up on his bed staring at the ceiling, rather he was squinting at the ceiling while his glasses lay on the bedside table. It had been a long time since he had something as comfortable as the mattress behind his back. It had taken him almost a week to get used to sleeping in the library seats. Stanford could feel tears pricking his eyes as he recalled his old bunkbed. Despite how heavy his eyelids felt at the McGucket dinner table, he couldn’t get a wink of sleep. 

 

Stanford shuffled around, trying to find a comfortable position. Sally had said that first thing tomorrow morning she’d dig out some clothes for him. But for now he’d have to settle for the same old clothes that he’d been wearing for longer than he’d like to admit. With a defeated sigh

Stanford rolled to his side, looking at the picture frame that stood behind his glasses. He could just make out it’s wooden border in the darkness.

 

It looked like the ones his mother would put on the mantelpiece. “You gotta keep the important memories lookin’ good, that’s how ya know they were worth it” she’d say. But he knew she was just covering up for something, she always was. Stan would always come up with off-the-wall theories as to the true intention behind the nicely framed pictures. “She’s hidin’ cash behind ‘em! In case she needs quick getaway.” Or, “she has amnesia that only happens at night when she’s a sleep! So in the morning she looks at the photos to remember who she is!” Stanford had never bothered to point out how it’d be impossible to hide any large sum of money in the photo frames. Nor did he point out how the photos didn’t seem too amazingly important to their mother, pictures of her sisters and a couple of pictures of himself and his twin, “Hardly identity defining.” Stanford would think.

 

But in actuality, Stanford was fairly certain that his mother just had some nice looking frames and didn’t want them going to waste. And as he looked at the empty frame that stared back at him from his night stand, Stanford decided to put this one to good use as well. _If I’m going to live here, I might as well make it look like home._ he thought sitting up. 

 

Stanford reached over the side of the bed for the deflated duffle bag that held his few belongings. He blindly felt up the inside of the bag. Six fingers quickly passing over clothing that was in long need of a wash, as well as a few work books that had been filled doodles from between his shifts. Stanford stopped when he felt the torn corner of an old mathematics work book. In one smooth motion he pulled the book out of the bag and opened it on his lap. He quickly leafed through the gridded pages, ignoring the pencil sketches as he came to one of the later pages. It had a drawing of a crashed spaceship, with two young aliens standing on top of it triumphantly. 

 

However, Ford’s eyes were too weak in the dark room to notice the drawing. Not that had been his target, rather he had been looking for what he was using as a bookmark. Carefully, Stanford brought the photograph to his face. He stared into the glossy page, willing his eyes to let him see the image. 

 

Smiling fondly, Stanford reached for the frame; almost knocking his glasses off the night stand in the process. With careful hand, he placed the frame face-down on the mattress, in front of him. He removed the back cover and gently placed the photograph in the frame. His fingers gently flattened the photo against the glass. Almost as though he were afraid the picture would turn to dust if he mishandled it. Taking a deep breath, Stanford replaced the back of the frame 

and returned it to his night stand.

 

Laying back down, Stanford was met the image with of two similarly-faced young boys standing triumphantly on top of an old shipwreck. He smiled nostalgically at the memory as he finally drifted to sleep.

* * *

 

“Stanford?” a soft voice asked, followed by a gentle knock at his door. “It’s time to get up.”

 

Stanford moaned, he wasn’t much of a morning person, or at least he didn’t feel like one. The time he had spent in the library had made it hard for him to remember what it was like to sleep on a bed. And he wasn’t really in the mood to leave such a comforting haven just yet. However his stomach’s painful grumbles convinced him to venture out of his newly discovered comfort zone.

 

Stanford rubbed his eyes from behind glass as he walked into the kitchen. The smell of eggs and meat wafted to the hall as he neared. The sound of sizzling sausages on the pan filled his ears, making the young man’s mouth salivate. That he could hide, what he wasn’t able to hide was the earth-shaking grumbling that came from his stomach.

 

“Hungry ain’t ya?” lute asked, walking past.

 

“I was gon’ wake you up for dinner but Ma said to let you rest.” Angie said.

 

“I-er-thank you?” Stanford replied, staring at the buffet-like table before him.

 

There were several plates of eggs and pancakes, a pile of mash potatoes that dwarfed the already tall glasses of milk that seemed to line the table. A pair of large milk filled jugs sat at the centre of the table. A couple of plates sat empty, however the sizzling form the pan that Fiddleford was cooking informed Stanford that the sausages were on their way to being finished. 

 

“C’mon an, take a seat Stanford” Sally said sweetly, setting some cutlery around the table. 

 

Stanford nodded and took the seat opposite Lute. Angie sat to his left and quickly poured herself a glass of milk. 

 

“You should try some of our milk.” She said to Stanford, “it tastes way better than anythin’ store bought.” 

 

“Don’t forget to say Grace.” Fiddleford reminded her as he emptied his pan into a plate nearby.

 

“I won’t” Angie replied, before turning to Stanford, “do ya wanna say Grace with me?”

 

“I-er I don't’ say Grace.” Stanford replied, rubbing the back of his head.

 

“You don’t? But why?” Angie asked.

 

“I’m Jewish,” Stanford replied,

 

“What do you say before you eat then?” Angie asked.

 

“I don’t normally say anything” Ford said. “But we do give thanks after we eat.”

 

“Leave ‘im alone Angie,” Lute groaned, “Ya can interrogate ‘im later.”

 

“Fine” Angie pouted, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. 

 

“It’s no trouble really,” Ford said with a shaky smile. 

 

“If you don’t stop her she’ll go on for hours” Lute said before copying his sister’s motion.

 

“Thank you?” Stanford replied, sitting in awkward silence as he watched the two youngest McGucket siblings finish their prayers. In the meantime Fiddleford had placed a plate that was loaded with sausages near the centre of the table, just to the left of the jugs of milk. 

 

“Don’t be shy Stanford, dig in! You did miss dinner after all.”  Sally said.

 

“Oh-er- yes of course.” Stanford said, reaching for some pancakes.

 

The other three McGuckets at at the table soon after. Mearl sitting next to Lute, opposite Angie, Fiddleford sat on the far side of the table, opposite to his mother who sat at the head of the table between Angie and her husband. Stanford tried his hardest to not gorge himself and look like a slob while he ate. The meal progressed smoothly, the sound of dishes clinking filled the air as the McGuckets and one Pine ate. Stanford listened as Mearl listed off the chores that he’d be undertaking, mostly animal feeding. 

 

“Go on ask him,” Sally said, nudging her daughter with her elbow.

 

Angie stared at her eggs, her face beet red as her mother nudged her a third time. She hadn’t exactly been subtle with her occasional glances at Stanford’s hands. With a heavy sigh, Stanford waited for the inevitable barrage of questions that followed him and his twelve digits.

 

“Do you really have six fingers or are you secretly shakin’ yer hands so fast that it looks like you’ve got six fingers?”

 

“Er-” Stanford was taken aback, it was the first time he’d been asked a question like that before. Definitely not what he was expecting. “No I do actually have six fingers on each hand. A rare birth defect.” he said. Stanford raised his hand and wriggled all six of his fingers individually to prove his point.

 

“Wow!” Angie said, stars lining her eyes. “Is it harder for you to put on shirts? Because of your extra knuckle?”

 

“Not really?” Stanford replied, waving his fork as he thought,“I mean the worst I’ve had was when I’d have to put a jacket over a shirt that was already kind of thick? But I think everyone struggles with that.”

 

“Yeah that can be annoyin’ sometimes” Angie agreed.

 

“Sometimes? You complain about it all the time” Fiddleford said.

 

“Not all the time!” Angie defended, “I only complain when my jacket pokes into my back weirdly.”

 

“Which is all the time,” Fiddleford shot back

  
“No it ain’t! You just happen to be around whenever I do complain.” Angie replied, looking away from her brother

 

“What about gloves?” Lute interjected, “did yer Ma hand make yer winter gloves fer ya?”

 

“Yes, gloves were a bit of a pain growing up. My mother ended up having to knit me my own mittens when I was younger.” Stanford said, recalling his younger years, “I’d always be crying about how uncomfortable regular mittens felt. And don’t get me started on lab in school. Every new year I’d have to go through the most insufferable administration process just to get permission to use the adult sized gloves.”

 

“Would ya fit yer two little fingers into the last finger of the glove?” Lute asked.

 

“Yes I did. Honestly I never understood why I’d have to go through administration every year,”  he complained, taking a bite of his potatoes. “I mean who else would be coming in to ask to use adult gloves? If I were a delinquent I would have just stolen them, not go through administration every year to get glove for my six fingered hands.”

 

“That does sound like a hassle,” Mearl said sympathetically, “But there are some pros to those cons right? I know Joel would be over the moon if he had an extra finger scratching him”

 

“I guess-”

 

“You could throw a lot more feed for the chickens at once!” Angie interrupted.

 

“Plus you’d probably find playin’ instruments easier.” Fiddleford added, taking a sip of his milk. “You wouldn’t need to move yer hand as much to get to the frets on a banjo or a guitar. Say, you ever play an instrument Stanford?”

 

“I never got the chance to try.” Stanford admitted. 

 

“Wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot” FIddleford said, “I could give ya some pointers on how to play after our chores some time.”

 

“That sounds nice. Thank you” Stanford said, finishing his pancakes.

* * *

 

“And then you just throw it for ‘em like this” FIddleford said, throwing a shower of chicken feed in front of himself. Making a chorus of chickens cluck in chaotic joy as they started pecking at the ground.

 

Stanford stood in some of Basstian’s old loose fitting clothes, a brown flannel shirt, some denim overalls and a pair of well worn boots. He carefully watched Fiddleford demonstrate the correct throwing technique a few more times before trying his hand at it. Digging into the large hessian sack, Stanford took a moment to enjoy the sensation of grain running through his fingers. 

 

“Feels good don’t it?” Fiddleford asked, walking over.

 

“It does feel pleasant yes.” Stanford said,throwing out a handful of feed for the chickens.

 

“Interestin’ way of puttin’ it. ‘pleasant’” Fiddleford repeated, grabbing an extra large handful.

 

“I-guess.” Stanford stuttered, hiding his hands behind his back, “There’s nothing wrong with that right?” he added

 

“No no, nothin’ wrong with that word, just interestin’ is all.” Fiddleford said, “you’re interestin’ Stanford.”

 

“Thank you?” Stanford replied, unsure on how he should reply.

 

“Don’t mention it.” Fiddleford grinned.

 

“Not to question your methods or anything, but don’t you have a more, efficient way of feeding your chickens?” Stanford asked, picking up another handful of feed.

 

“Yeah, we’ve got a feeder over there-” Fiddleford said, point with his thumb “-but i thought you’d have liked to have some fun with this for a bit.”

 

“But don’t we have to feed the other live stock too? And check on the vegetable garden and a bunch of other things?” Stanford asked, trying his best to recall what Mearl had told him at breakfast.

 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that” Fiddeford said “few minutes of lettin’ the chickens see you feed them is a great way to have them earn yer trust”

 

“Makes sense” Stanford nodded.

 

Fiddleford stood up and grabbed the feeder from beside the coop. He took extra care to point out how he unclipped it from it’s hook. Stanford nodded along as he watched him refill the feeder. He handed it to Stanford and let the farm hand replace it. It took a couple of attempts, but he eventually got the feeder to hang in place.  He turned to Fiddleford and smiled proudly at his work, who gave him a thumbs up. With the chickens busy Fiddleford led Stanford into the chicken coop.

 

The coop wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination, in fact one could say that it was a tad cramped. However, considering that it’s intended occupants were not humans but rather knee tall birds, it only made sense that Stanford needed to hunch over to fit inside. There were rows of wooden boxes filled messy collections of twigs and straw. About a third of the left wall had what semed like a single racked shelf instead of the messy boxes. Below the shelf sat a tray filled with chicken droppings.

 

“The nests are over there, outside was the feeders an’ waterer and over there are the roosting poles. ” Fiddleford said, pointing out them out.

 

“Which doubles as their bathroom?” Stanford asked.

 

“And as compost fodder.” Fiddleford grinned.

 

“Quite.” 

 

“Now help me take this tray to the compost barrel” Fiddleford said reaching for the tray.

* * *

 

As it turned out, Fiddeford only had Stanford pour the drippings into a bucket. After the pair finished with the tray, the let the chickens back into their coop. Fiddleford locked the gate after Ford, there was a spring in his step as he walked to the vegetable garden.    
  
“Wait up” Ford said. Walking slowly as to not spill the bucket of chicken droppings .

 

“It’s right over here” Fiddleford said stopping by the gate to the vegetable garden.

 

The garden sat on a lot of land that looked as big as the house. The tilled dirt was coloured green with the numerous sprouts that lined across the garden. Several wooden posts stuck out along the garden. Bright green shoots wrapped around the posts, like a child clinging to their mother on their first day at preschool. Lute sat on the far side of the garden, furiously pulling at weeds. He waved at the boys as they walked around the fence.

 

“Putting the stuff into the drum?” he called out, dusting his hands against his overalls.

 

“Thought I’d show Ford how we make compost” Fiddleford replied, pointing to a barrel further along the yard.

 

“Have fun with that” Lute replied, turning back to his weeding, “where did I leave my trowel?”

 

Stanford looked at the barrel that Fiddleford had pointed out. It was painted dark and stood between two chest high post. “Why does that look familiar?” he muttered, eyeing the barrel as he and Fiddleford neared.

 

When they reached the fertilizer barrel, Fiddleford gave it a quick tumble, rolling it on it’s axis. He stopped it when a small handle rolled pass, turning the barrel back so that a small hatch was facing him. “Okay now Stanford, all we gotta do is pour that there bucket in here” Fiddleford said, smiling sweetly.

 

“I’m suddenly very untrusting of this barrel.” Ford said, eyeing the hatch.

 

“What’s the matter?” FIddleford asked.

 

“You want me to pour out all this rather-er ill-smelling stuff into a barrel that you probably has a lot more ill-smelling stuff in it.”  Stanford accused, “A single glance at your garden is this big you obviously use the barrel often, hencing filling it often. How do I know that opening that hatch won’t cover me in yesterday’s leftovers?”

 

“Easy now Stanford,” FIddleford said, raising his hands in surrender, “I ain’t plannin’ any foul play.” He offered his hand to the new farm hand, “Why  don’t you let me show you how we make the compost in this drum?”

 

Stanford looked at Fiddleford’s hand, appraising the farmboy’s offer. Looking up Stanford’s eyes saw the soft smile on Fiddleford’s face, there was a gente look in his eye as he slowly took the bucket from Ford’s hand. 

 

Stanford held his breath as he watched Fiddleford twist the knob and open the hatch. To his surprise, he wasn’t met with the smell of day old ham or the smell of cow manure so strong that it suffocated. Instead he was met with the smell of dirt. Odd smelling dirt to be sure, but dirt nonetheless. Fiddleford tilted the drum back and poured the bucket’s contents into the drum before closing the hatch and twisting the knob.

 

“You said that you use this ba-drum, you use this drum to make your fertilizer right? How exactly does that work?” Stanford asked, finding his tongue.

 

“Actually, what we’re making here is compost.” Fiddleford said, continuing to turn the drum.

 

“What’s the difference?” Stanford asked.

 

“Fertilizer feeds the plants nutrients, while compost feeds the soil.” Fiddleford said.

 

“That’s not that helpful.” Stanford replied.

 

Fiddleford hummed for a moment, looking upwards as he tried to find the right words. His hands mindlessly rolling the drum as he did. “Well, think of it like this, ya can’t really feed a little kid proper food until they can handle it right?”

 

“Right”

 

“So it’s kinda the same thing here, if we use fertilizer on the plants now they might not absorbed ‘em all and mess up the soil. Not to mention that compost is easier to make, it takes a while but it’s easier. You just throw in food scraps, garden clippings, add in sime soil for balance and Bob’s your uncle you’ve got yourself some compost. Give or take a few months.” Fiddleford added, chuckling a little. He stepped aside, beckoning Stanford over to try spinning the barrel.

 

“That makes sense, BUt I still have to ask, if that drumm has a couple of months worth of food and animal scraps in it, how doesn’t smell like a poorly cleaned public bathroom?” Stanford asked, following fiddleford prompt and pressing his hands against the metal drum.

 

“You just have to balance it out?” Fiddleford replied, “Pa said it had somethin’ to do with balancing the nitrogen and carbon amount within the compost, and that a bad smell comes from the abundance of one chemical over another and that that’s a sign that you gotta add more stuff like egg shells and animal waste if it’s too nitrogen concentrated and smell like old fish. Otherwise you’ve gotta add more green if it’s too carbon heavy.” Fiddleford recounted, as though he had heard this particular speech multiple times and had memorised it word for word.

 

“Your father seems rather well informed.” Stanford said, “I hadn’t known that there was such a science to gardening.”

 

“Yeah, my parents are enthusiastic ‘bout school and learning.” Fiddleford said with a fond smile.

 

“That’s good to hear.” Stanford said, wearing a sheepish smile of his own.

* * *

 

Ford sat snugly on the sofa in the living room, he felt as though he’d lost twenty pounds in the shower. _Probably from washing away all that oil off of my skin_  he thought. The sound of Fiddleford and Lute rummaging through Harper’s room was partially drowned out by the sound of Sally singing cheerfully from the kitchen. Angie laid sprawled out on the floor, a pencil in hand as she wrote in her work book. 

 

Ford turned to the novel in his hand, an interesting tale about a pair of brothers and their adventures in an enchanted forest. It wasn’t a difficult read by any stretch of the imagination, but there was a certain charm to it. The way the characters spoke; the way the illustrations every few pages seemed to come to life as the words danced off the page into a literary firework display that made Ford resent being distracted from it.   
  


Fortunately any distractions were minor. An occasional groan of pain from Angie as she pooled over her summer homework. A couple of frustrated quips down the hall from Fiddleford and Lute. The questioning croak that came from beside him.

 

“Wait what?” Stanford said aloud, turning to look at the frog that was now seated beside him. “Er-Angie, did you leave the back door open?” 

 

“What? No.” Angie replied, sounding rather miffed.

 

“Then why is there a frog here?” Stanford asked, pointing at his amphibious couch neighbour.

 

Angie rolled quickly to see what Ford was talking about. “That’s Scout, Harper’s pet frog. Friendly little fella, but he shouldn’t be outta his tank. One of my brother’s musta opened the tank by mistake.” She sighed in relief, turning back to her work. “They’ll come back for him later.”

 

“Ah” Stanford said, “should I be concerned?”

 

“Nah, as long as ya don’t lose ‘im yer good.” Angie assured over her shoulder.

 

“If you say so.” Stanford said. He turned to look at the frog, who blinked back at him. “I’m guessing it’s been awhile since you’ve been out of your tank. Would you like to read with me?” he asked the frog.

 

Scout croaked back at the boy, who took that as affirmation. “In that case let me just-” Stanford said, sitting the frog in the palm of his hand. It felt wet and warm, he’d have to wash up for dinner in any case, so Stanford didn’t mind. “-Ah, there we go. Now, are you ready to explore the enchanted wood with me?”

 

Scout croaked in response. 

 

“Wonderful.” Stanford grinned as he began to read out loud for his new companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I"m turning this into a chaptered fic after all!
> 
> one problem is that uni is picking up, so updates might be on the slower side. Especially for the next chapter as I'm going to be taking a bit of a break in order to make sure I've got the plot all straightened out. 
> 
> For now I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> This might end up being multi-chap. 
> 
> (Here's the link to TheLastSpeechers ficlet http://thelastspeecher.tumblr.com/post/159588563516/20-role-swap-stan-is-the-one-who-gets-the)


End file.
